soon—”
“What the hell are you doing?”
The civilians scatter as two men and a bald woman, drooling and gurgling, step forward and latch onto Hawkeye’s limbs, pulling at them with their full strength. In an instant, he is shrieking and flailing.
Ruiz fires his shotgun, deafening all of them, knocking both of the men to the ground. The woman loses her balance and falls backward, then comes back snarling. Ruiz clubs her senseless with a single stroke of the butt of his weapon.
Lewis helps Hawkeye back onto his feet. The other boys look at the bleeding and dying civilians, and then Ruiz, with something like awe.
“Did they bite you, Private?” the LT asks Hawkeye.
“You saw what they were doing, sir,” Hawkeye says, barely concealing his irritation while he rubs his left arm. “They tried to pull my arms off. Hurt like hell, too.”
“I’m not making fun of you, Private. Did any of them bite you?”
“No, sir. Nobody did.”
Bowman nods to Ruiz, then says, “All right, back to your squads. Let’s move while we still have the freedom to do so.”
“Hooah,” they shout.
The soldiers deploy as fast as they can through the wreckage of the abandoned vehicles choking Second Avenue, then Bowman gives them the order to step off.
Speed is a type of security. If they can move fast enough, they can punch their way through with minimal loss of life and ammunition.
People come running past them, screaming for their lives, hugging or dropping their food parcels. Some begin clinging to the soldiers, who shrug them off and keep moving while their sergeants howl at them to Go go go , cursing a blue streak.
“Stay close to me, boys,” Bowman tells Martin and Boomer.
Nearby, a man has jumped into one of the abandoned cars and is trying to close the door while a Mad Dog slowly forces it open. One of the soldiers drops the Mad Dog with a single shot. Bowman shoulders his carbine and unholsters his nine-millimeter sidearm. A woman flies by on rollerblades, shouting, “Heads up! Coming through!”
The platoon wades into chaos.
Exactly what you were trying to avoid
Third Squad moves fast among the cars and approaches the intersection, which is a scene of chaos. There are people everywhere, many of them infected. Mad Dogs are fighting uninfected people, uninfected people are fighting each other around the food trucks. Nearby, incredibly, two New York City police officers have wrestled a Mad Dog to the ground and are trying to cuff him, while five feet away a man is beating a woman to death in a frenzy with a broken hairdryer. One of the officers is bleeding from bites on his arm. The police cars’ lights strobe red and blue, sparkling in the soldiers’ eyes.
Mounted above the chaos, the intersection’s traffic signal mundanely turns from red to green as it is programmed to do.
The air crackles with small arms fire and several people collapse to the ground. Second Squad has entered the intersection and is plowing ahead, shooting anything that looks hostile. First Squad is bogged down by civilians clinging to them for protection, their formation broken, while McGraw lays about him with the butt of his shotgun, trying to untangle his unit. The screaming is grating and endless, shredding their nerves.
“Get off me!” McLeod shouts, shoving his way through the civilians.
The infected appear to focus on whoever fired last, which is unnerving.
Hicks is crying as he bayonets a Mad Dog.
“Keep going!” he shouts.
“Don’t make me shoot you!” McLeod is pleading, pushing against a woman’s back with the butt of his SAW. She screams and drops a television set she’s been carrying, which falls to the street with a crash.
People are running everywhere, but the soldiers are moving into the current, forming a dam, and then it’s hand to hand.
Bowman fires his pistol into a snarling face, which disappears.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid, he tells himself. “Reform!” he cries, but there are
“What the hell are you doing?”
The civilians scatter as two men and a bald woman, drooling and gurgling, step forward and latch onto Hawkeye’s limbs, pulling at them with their full strength. In an instant, he is shrieking and flailing.
Ruiz fires his shotgun, deafening all of them, knocking both of the men to the ground. The woman loses her balance and falls backward, then comes back snarling. Ruiz clubs her senseless with a single stroke of the butt of his weapon.
Lewis helps Hawkeye back onto his feet. The other boys look at the bleeding and dying civilians, and then Ruiz, with something like awe.
“Did they bite you, Private?” the LT asks Hawkeye.
“You saw what they were doing, sir,” Hawkeye says, barely concealing his irritation while he rubs his left arm. “They tried to pull my arms off. Hurt like hell, too.”
“I’m not making fun of you, Private. Did any of them bite you?”
“No, sir. Nobody did.”
Bowman nods to Ruiz, then says, “All right, back to your squads. Let’s move while we still have the freedom to do so.”
“Hooah,” they shout.
The soldiers deploy as fast as they can through the wreckage of the abandoned vehicles choking Second Avenue, then Bowman gives them the order to step off.
Speed is a type of security. If they can move fast enough, they can punch their way through with minimal loss of life and ammunition.
People come running past them, screaming for their lives, hugging or dropping their food parcels. Some begin clinging to the soldiers, who shrug them off and keep moving while their sergeants howl at them to Go go go , cursing a blue streak.
“Stay close to me, boys,” Bowman tells Martin and Boomer.
Nearby, a man has jumped into one of the abandoned cars and is trying to close the door while a Mad Dog slowly forces it open. One of the soldiers drops the Mad Dog with a single shot. Bowman shoulders his carbine and unholsters his nine-millimeter sidearm. A woman flies by on rollerblades, shouting, “Heads up! Coming through!”
The platoon wades into chaos.
Exactly what you were trying to avoid
Third Squad moves fast among the cars and approaches the intersection, which is a scene of chaos. There are people everywhere, many of them infected. Mad Dogs are fighting uninfected people, uninfected people are fighting each other around the food trucks. Nearby, incredibly, two New York City police officers have wrestled a Mad Dog to the ground and are trying to cuff him, while five feet away a man is beating a woman to death in a frenzy with a broken hairdryer. One of the officers is bleeding from bites on his arm. The police cars’ lights strobe red and blue, sparkling in the soldiers’ eyes.
Mounted above the chaos, the intersection’s traffic signal mundanely turns from red to green as it is programmed to do.
The air crackles with small arms fire and several people collapse to the ground. Second Squad has entered the intersection and is plowing ahead, shooting anything that looks hostile. First Squad is bogged down by civilians clinging to them for protection, their formation broken, while McGraw lays about him with the butt of his shotgun, trying to untangle his unit. The screaming is grating and endless, shredding their nerves.
“Get off me!” McLeod shouts, shoving his way through the civilians.
The infected appear to focus on whoever fired last, which is unnerving.
Hicks is crying as he bayonets a Mad Dog.
“Keep going!” he shouts.
“Don’t make me shoot you!” McLeod is pleading, pushing against a woman’s back with the butt of his SAW. She screams and drops a television set she’s been carrying, which falls to the street with a crash.
People are running everywhere, but the soldiers are moving into the current, forming a dam, and then it’s hand to hand.
Bowman fires his pistol into a snarling face, which disappears.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid, he tells himself. “Reform!” he cries, but there are
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